


The Lion, The Thorn and The Wolf

by EssayOfThoughts



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval AU, F/M, Medieval AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 07:06:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4994902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EssayOfThoughts/pseuds/EssayOfThoughts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa has always been a Good Girl. She has always been devout, always said her prayers, gone to confession, said her rosary. She was devout, and she was dutiful.</p>
<p>So why wouldn’t the lion leave her alone?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lion, The Thorn and The Wolf

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SecondStarOnTheLeft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/gifts).



Sansa has always been a Good Girl. She has always been devout, always said her prayers, gone to confession, said her rosary. When her parents pointed out she could not go to the convent, even for education; that she must marry for the family, she shouldered her duty. Her _prie dieu_ remained. Her rosary remained. She remained devout, and she remained dutiful.

_So why wouldn’t the lion leave her alone?_

She’d heard the tales. Devout Christians taking the thorn from a lion’s paw and earning its loyalty. Devout Christians praying to God and being saved.

There was no thorn. God did not answer her prayers.

She huddles in the chapel on the grounds of the Red Keep, tries to ignore the lion scratching at the door, it’s roaring, the meaty huff of its breath, of how the scratches it left down her back and buttock and leg sting. She had managed to pull brambles and briar roses in front of the door, managed to shut the heavy slabs of oak and iron, and had picked the thorns from her hands, soothed her pain.

She did not know what had angered the lion. (She did not think anything had at all.)

She kneels before the altar, rosary looped around her hands, between her fingers, sliding as she counts out each prayer and repeats it. Her hands are clasped, her head is bowed. _Holy Mary, Mother of God, Jesus Christ our saviour, Holy Ghost, Lord God in Heaven, Peter the Rock, John the Baptist,_ murmured thoughts and words towards the most powerful, the most inclined to help, to save, to spread the word.

_Send someone to help, for I have strength of faith, but not strength of limb_.

Outside, the lion roars in pain, and anger, and irritation.

 

* * *

 

Willas’ leg aches, but it is good to be in the saddle all the same. He was new-arrived at court, dragged into the mess of marriages and murder by his family, and it was the first time he’d been free to ride. The hunt, led by several lords with the ear of the young king, was after a lion he’d set loose in the grounds.

“It upsets my lady mother to hear it roaring so,” he had said, waving a berringed hand carelessly. “Bring back its pelt for her. A lionskin for my lioness mother.”

The lords had bowed their heads, and ridden out. Willas had not liked the look in the boy’s eye.

 

* * *

 

The doors – inches thick oak, heavy iron bands – groaned at the hinges as the lion threw its weight at them.

_Please_ , Sansa prayed. _Let me live. Not be the Queen, not be a Lady, just let me live, **please**. I will do whatever the king, your chosen king says, please, Lord, please, Jesus, please, Mary, Mother of God, _**please** _._

 

* * *

 

They find the lion outside the chapel. It is pacing, roaring, snarling, and only notices them when turning from the building to run at it again. There is something, Willas notices, something in its eyes, like the dog of his that Oberyn had killed after one look. He glances to his friend.

Oberyn nods, and mouths, _Poison_.

Together they kick their horses forwards. Oberyn circles outward, moving calmly away. Willas charges in. _Roses grow_ , he thinks. _They grow thorns. And we Tyrells grow strong._ He catches Oberyn’s eye as the other lords catch onto the idea, and hollers a cry as Oberyn looses his arrow.

 

* * *

 

There is a cry from outside, breaking through silence.  A roaring snarl of pain and Sansa flinches, glances toward the door, before she bows her head and prays again. _Lord deliver me, Lord save me, Mary, Mother of God, preserve me, **please**._

 

* * *

 

The lion takes too many arrows to fell, Willas thinks, and is certain the king won’t be pleased at the damage to the creature’s pelt. Then again, given Oberyn’s word that it had been poisoned, he didn’t think he much trusted the king.

Oberyn nudges his horse closer to Willas’, and nods to the barricade of thorns and briar roses, and the clawed doors to the chapel. “Why do you think it was trying to get in?”

Willas’ eyes narrow. He is certain, as certain as Oberyn seems to be, that something here is not right. “I’ll find out,” He says, and kicks his horse forward. As he goes he calls to his friend; “Make sure none of them damage the lion worse, won’t you?”

 

* * *

 

The thorns catch on his gloves, but the soft-worn leather of them is still strong enough to tuck the long coiling stalks of thorns and roses. He plucks one, more yellow than pink, and one more pink than any, and tuck them into knot tying his cape in place. He is certain that they will please Margaery, and mother, certainly more than the tales of the hunt, and the possible poisoning would. The doors are heavy, and creak open when he pushes.

 

* * *

 

Sansa heard the lion go quiet outside, but stayed, kneeling, praying. Thanks and pleading both, in English, Latin, French, sometimes, when she slipped, and sometimes the Scots Father had used, promises and prayers of a faith before the true. Sansa was too thankful to find care that it was not the usual fare of prayer.

When the door creaked though… then she stilled. Then she bowed her head further. Then she prayed again.

_Not him, not Joffrey, please, may it please you, Lord God, please Mother of God, please, not Joffrey, please, please, please, pleasepleaseplease—_

“My lady?” The voice is gentle, and a stranger’s. Sansa shakes, but does not turn. She hears the whisper of threads, a sweep of cloth moving, and tries not to flinch as the heavy velvet settles around her shoulders, on the seeping scratches left by the lion’s claws.

The voice speaks again. “My Lady, I am Willas Tyrell. The lion is dead. There are many of us outside, my lady, if you wish to return to the Keep, and have your wounds treated.”

 

* * *

 

When the lady turns to look at him Willas finds himself trapped in Tully eyes, and a Stark face. _The Lady Sansa_ , his mind reminds him, and Willas is forced to remind himself that breathing is probably rather important.

“Is….” Her voice is quiet, and barely a whisper. There is something Willas thinks may be fear in her eyes. “Is the King there?”

Willas shakes his head, and smiles, gently. “No. There is a Martell Prince, though. Prince Oberyn, my friend.” She still looks scared, so Willas keeps his voice quiet. “Would you like to come outside, my lady? We will see you safe home, you have my word.”

 

* * *

 

Sansa knows court is not safe, but she trusts this man’s word to see her safely there. There is something, in his eyes, in his tone, in his posture even as he leans on a twisted leg, that suggests a strength and a purpose. Sansa rises, pulling his cloak around her. Her rosary wraps around her wrist, once, twice, thrice, and once more, and she takes his offered hand.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday Niamh!


End file.
